"Well, we need-" the prince began, only to break off at the sound of shouting from outside the tent. "Now what the hell is that?"

"Modderpockers, let me go!" Poertena shouted. He snarled at the laughing Marines who were crawling out of their one-person tents to sniff at the morning air. "Gimme a pocking hand, damn it!"

"Okay, everybody," St. John (J.) said, slowly clapping. "Let's give him a hand."

"Now that," Roger said, "is a truly disgusting menage a ... uh ..."

"Menage a cinq is the term you're looking for," Doc Dobrescu said, laughing as he walked over to the pinned armorer and the four comatose Mardukans wrapped tightly about his diminutive form.

Roger shook his head and chuckled, but he also waved to the Marines.

"Some of you guys, help the Doc."

St. John (J.) grabbed one of Denat's inert arms and started trying to disengage it from the armorer.

"This really is gross, Poertena," the Marine said as he tried to pull one of the slime-covered arms off the armorer.

"You pocking telling me? I wake up, and it not'ing but arms and slime!"

Roger began to haul on Tratan as the Mardukan groaned and resisted the pulling Marines.

"They seem to like you, Poertena."

"Well," the armorer's response sounded mildly strangled, "they tryin' to kill me now! Leggo!"

"They like his heat," the warrant officer grunted as he helped Roger heave, then said something unprintable under his breath and gave up. The united efforts of three Marines had so far been unable to get Denat to release his grip, and the bear hug actually did threaten to kill the armorer. "Somebody build a fire. Maybe if we warm them up, they'll let go."

"And somebody help me get Cord," Roger said, then thought about the weight of the Mardukan. "Several somebodies." He looked over to the picket lines where the mahouts made their camp. "Did anybody notice that the packbeasts are missing?" he asked, bemusedly.